


Clockwork

by humanveil



Series: and whoever calls the night a blanket, has never felt the cold [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9823328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Despite every promise, every apology, every lie, it is a scene that always repeats itself.





	

Severus is alone. He is three years old and his broken down home echoes with it; the silence all-consuming.

He is four, and the silence is replaced with screams. He crawls from the bed and follows the voices in the dark. He wants to help. His mother tells him to go back to his room. He is four, and his mother is trying her best to keep him safe.

He is four, and he breaks his father’s arm without ever moving a muscle. Tobias stares, horrified. Eileen stares, proud.

He is four, he is five, and he learns the impossible is possible for him.

He is five, and Tobias breaks every promise he makes, just as he breaks the plates on the wall.

His is five, he is six, he is smart, smarter, smartest. His mother teaches him as much as his brain can absorb. Loneliness is replaced with books, with knowledge. With the stories his mother tells him.

He is six, and he is bubbling with questions. Overflowing with curiosity. He has not yet learnt when to keep his mouth shut. Eileen answers everything she can, but never tells him why the bruises keep coming.

*

He is six when he hears it for the first time; the word said with disgust, with hatred. He is reminded that his mother is not as fragile as most think, that she is not a damsel in distress, but rather a prince. The Prince.

His face stings with the impact of his father’s hand. He tastes the blood as it coats his mouth, his tongue. He thinks: _like mother, like son._

Eileen stands in their doorway, ready for a fight. But even as they yell, the word rings in Severus’ ears. 

_Mudblood._

*

He is seven, and he’s quick on his feet but quicker with words. He is a thief. He is a liar. He is ready for a fight.

He steals from the pockets of strangers, and uses the money in stores. And then steals from the stores as well. His mother has told him not to, but he doesn’t understand why. They had nothing, and the stores had everything. It was only fair.

The local children call him names, and he calls them names back. They’re boring. Ordinary. He gives them a fight when they pick fights. His father’s punches hurt a lot more anyway.

He is seven, and his mother is still trying her best.

He is seven. He is weary. He disregards any promises and apologies thrown his way. He does not forgive, he does not forget. He wishes his mother was the same.

He is seven, and his mother coughs a lot and sleeps too much. He is seven, and he’s trying his best to keep his mother safe. He is seven, and his father brings home flowers, words of remorse on his lips. He is seven, and he watches as Eileen accepts them. He is seven, and he watches as Tobias gives her a reason not to.

*

He is eight, and he’d stopped going to school months ago. They’d started asking questions, ones that had no good answer. Eileen continues to teach him what she knows. He is still curious. Still intelligent. Still hungry to know everything. He is eight, and he thinks he could rule the world if he only knew enough.

He is eight, and he learns to blend with the furniture when his father drinks. He is eight, and he spends more time away from home than inside of it. He is eight, and it is a scene that repeats itself. Over and over. Never ending. Inevitable.

He is eight, and his mother is ill. He asks to go to the hospital, and Tobias tells him no. He asks if she’ll be okay, and Tobias breaks the empty bottle of whiskey on the wall above his head.

He is eight, and he takes his mother’s place.

He is eight. He is lonely. He is alone.


End file.
